Chester Rogalski, author of “Last Words Unknown”, has previously published short fiction in Flash Fiction Magazine. He lives in New York City with his wife and two cats.
Vinny always gets places early, always with an ace up his sleeve, prepared.
Never give them time to setup on you.
His mantra.
He’s at the bench north of Central Park at 8:30 am, bodega coffee in hand, black, two splendas.
Vinny thinks Richie’s an asshole. But he keeps it to himself because he’s the boss’s son…
Thirty minutes early.
It’s a warm September Friday afternoon and he’s just another old timer watching the world go by while enjoying his morning coffee. Harried mothers hurry past, clutching teary eyed kids by the hand, late for school, daycare, somewhere. He hears Richie coming; windows down, music blasting, struggling to parallel park.
Driving that gaudy goddamn SUV.
Vinny thinks Richie’s an asshole. But he keeps it to himself because he’s the boss’s son and this is who he’s chosen as his messenger.
So be it.
Except the kid’s early.
Richie’s never early.
“Hey Vin, how you doin’, how goes it on the isle of Manhattan?” Richie says, walking up to where Vinny’s seated.
The kid’s sweating bullets.
Large caliber.
They don’t shake hands.
“It’s going. What’s the matter with you? It ain’t that hot out.” Richie’s got on a white T-shirt drenched with sweat, and a red Yankee cap.
“Pops got me running all over, you know how he is. He don’t come out here no more.”
“It’s 8:30, lot of meetings this early?” Vinny says. Vinny’s got a guy who works at the diner in the Lower Eastside Richie takes meetings at. Richie had a full table this morning.
Big things shaking out.
His guy tells him they’re gonna want him to do a big player at the feast. Didn’t say specifically who.
Vinny’s got an idea who.
Richie thinks he’s so fucking smart.
Father’s an idiot.
Apple don’t far fall from the tree.
They pay well and they pay on time. So, Vinny took the call, and here he is. Even though his guy at the diner told him they wanted no loose ends.
They wouldn’t dare.
“What’s with the third fucking degree Vin? Here’s the envelope. It’s going to be crowded. But he’s gotta go. And he’s gotta go tomorrow, at the Feast of San Gennaro,” Richie says. He pulls out a vape and takes a long pull.
Vinny wonders what kind of a gangster smokes a vape but lets it go.
“Short notice is fine. Just have my usual fee at the drop-off. You got the up front with you?” Vinny reaches into his jacket and pulls out a pack of Pall Mall and lights one up. Richie’s got a fanny pack with him and hands it over to Vinny.
“Pops gave the ok on doubling your fee. Short notice rush job and all that,” Richie says rubbernecking a group of young girls walking by.
“Ok, fair enough. I’ll take care of it. Tell Sal I said hello. And your Ma too.”
“Yeah, ok Vin,” Richie says walking off towards his truck. Vinny watches him go and wonders what’s the matter with Yankee blue, what’s with the red. He opens the envelope and pulls out the picture, along with a phone. He doesn’t have to turn it over to see the name.
Vinny knows who it is.
Pictured is Nicky the Nose, the head of one of the last remaining crews worth a shit in the city. His grandfather was a perfumer back in the day on 1st and 7th. The family kept the business going, except Nicky got wise and now has the Chinese bottling and making his fragrances. He even has business cards which read: “Nick DiMeglio, Perfumer.” A spray of his fragrances on each card. He’s also got a giant nose you can hang a towel on and an ass that needs two seats at Yankee Stadium.
Vinny sees this for what it is.
A power-play.
No problem.
He’s like Switzerland.
No sides.
He tosses the picture down a storm drain, pockets the phone, and hails a cab. Time to prepare.
*****
Vinny’s been going to Wendy’s Wigs for the better part of twenty years. They first met when she reached out to a friend of a friend about her husband, Darius, who was getting too handsy and threatening to kill her and her son Isaiah. Darius is now in the trunk of his Buick Skylark at the bottom of Eastchester Bay. Pro Bono.
They were friends ever since. Often more.
Vinny pushes the door open to Wendy’s shop, setting off the chime. She’s sitting behind the counter, thumbing a magazine, readers on. Vinny wonders where the time goes. She looked like Pam Grier when they first met, now, an older Pam Grier. Wendy looks up and smiles when she sees him walk in.
“Hey baby, good to see you,” she says, walking around the counter and kissing him on the cheek.
“Hey hon, how are ya?” Vinny asks as he sits in the folding chair near the counter. He looks around the shop for a second, looking over the heads of hair on the mannequins.
Wendy don’t miss a beat.
She walks over to the front door and locks it, flipping the OPEN sign to CLOSED.
“What do you need?” Wendy asks.
Vinny pulls off his flat cap. “I need a wig for tomorrow, a good one. And a mustache. I will get recognized without them. Something good. Your best.”
Wendy walks off to the back and comes out with a dark brown-haired wig and a small box Vinny assumes is the mustache. She calls it a hair system. “This shit’s cutting edge baby. There’s an adhesive, it’ll take some time to set, but it’ll work. Hollywood grade shit.”
“Good, good. Let’s do it. Call your sister too, tell her I need an EMT uniform.” Wendy’s sister Angela runs a dry cleaner nearby. Vinny pays good money for uniforms that somehow “get lost” in the wash.
An hour later the hair system is on along with the mustache. Wendy takes the uniform from her sister at the door. Vinny counts out five hundred cash that Wendy flat out refuses. He tells her it’s not for her anyway it’s for her sister. Wendy waves it off, her long colorful nails clacking on the counter. When she isn’t looking, he lifts a wig off a mannequin head and places the folded-up cash underneath.
They kiss each other on the cheek as Vinny heads out the door.
*****
Vinny wakes up early the morning of.
Makes coffee.
Folgers.
Black as night.
He walks over to the window of his apartment overlooking the streets of Hell’s Kitchen below. It’s a different neighborhood nowadays.
Safe.
Family friendly.
He opens the window and lights a cigarette. Watches the early birds go off to work. He flicks the butt out the window and puts some jazz on the record player.
Time to get dressed.
He looks himself over in the mirror. He’s unrecognizable. The name on the EMT jacket says Ramos. Raul Ramos is the name he decides on if it comes down to that.
It won’t.
But you never know. On the breakfast bar in his kitchen is an old perfume bottle filled with cyanide. The kind with a pump on the end. That’s the method he’s going with today.
He’s used it before.
Got the ratio down to a science.
One spray to the face and it’s game over. Vinny gets the rest of his gear in place and walks down to the subway.
*****
The Q train takes thirty minutes to get to the stop. He walks the rest of the way.
Getting his blood pumping.
It’s 10am; the work phone tells him that Nicky should be there around noon. Plenty of time for Vinny to set up nearby and do a little reconnaissance. Saturday at the feast is always crammed with people.
Extra time is good.
Vinny gets to the police roadblock on Mulberry Street and nods to the officers as he steps into the feast. The street is filled with people decked out head to toe in Italian flag shirts, hats, face paint, you name it. Anyone Italian, anyone who knows an Italian, anyone who wants to be Italian is there, sucking down sausages and peppers beneath the red, white, and green banners stretching across the street above. Vinny tucks into a café and orders an espresso. The work phone pings that Nicky is on his way.
About thirty minutes, maybe forty-five.
Early.
He downs the espresso and heads back out onto the street.
Vinny’s leaning against the wall outside the café on Mulberry watching the crowd when the message comes in. Nicky’s walking over with a couple of guys down Grand Street towards the feast, wearing a pink dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, gray slacks, and dark sunglasses.
Dressed like a shithead.
Probably looking like a pair of Groucho glasses, sans mustache, he thinks. Vinny’s only about a block away and moves to the corner of Grand and Mulberry, where he can see them approach. He slithers through the crowd; it’s getting denser the closer it gets to lunch time. Rat pack music is blasting from stereos outside of the restaurants lining the street, people laughing, dancing, drinking, having a good time. Vinny’s all business. He moves swiftly, swimming over people and maneuvering towards the end of the block.
Clock is ticking.
The crowds are growing; he could lose him.
“Help, my husband, he’s choking!” a woman screams in his ear, tugging at his arm. Vinny looks over and sees a blimp of a man clutching at his throat, turning a deep shade of red. “Do something!” she screams again, pulling him towards the man. Vinny freezes for a second, the crowd is staring at him. Decision time.
He relents and walks calmly over to the guy, stands behind him, wraps his arms around his thick midsection and performs the Heimlich. Vinny’s never done it before.
You wouldn’t know.
He pumps the man hard, in an upward motion, forceful, methodical. The man’s gasping, spittle flying everywhere. He pumps harder. He hears a thump and sees a hunk of zeppola come flying out, hitting an onlooker square in her bedazzled “Guidette” T-shirt. The crowd cheers, Vinny smiles and fades into the crowd, back towards where Nicky is.
Back to business.
He spots him on the corner. Standing in front of an ancient cheese shop yelling and speaking animatedly into his phone. Vinny stands catty-corner and watches. He reaches into his jacket and feels for the perfume bottle of cyanide and slips on a pair of latex gloves. Nicky and his goons head into the feast while Vinny follows. Not too close, far enough to keep an eye on them. There’s a brass band nearby playing the theme from The Godfather. Vinny watches Nicky step up to one of the vendors and buy a sausage and peppers.
This is it.
He moves in a little closer.
The work phone pings.
The message says once it’s done the money will be waiting. Nicky takes his sausage to go and steps into the crowd.
Vinny gets closer.
The crowd swallows them up as he approaches. The brass band makes it impossible to hear what anyone is saying.
Vinny is feet away now.
The goons with Nicky are too far ahead of him, amateurs. Vinny inches closer, he’s right behind him. Taps him on the shoulder, Nicky turns around, that giant fucking schnoz, mouthful of sausage. He recognizes him.
Nicky knows he’s a goner.
Vinny sprays him in the face and ducks off towards the sidewalk. He makes a beeline back towards Grand Street as the screams begin. Richie is waiting at the roadblock. They nod at each other and walk away west from the feast.
Richie’s SUV is waiting for them on Grand and Wooster. Richie gets in the front seat, Vinny in the back. Sal’s there, waiting.
“Hey Vin, you did great. Let’s go get- “Vinny doesn’t let him finish. He slides the ace out from up his sleeve. It’s a silver two shot Derringer. He pops Sal in the forehead and Richie in his red Yankee cap.
The gun’s little.
Quiet.
He grabs the keys from Richie and opens the hatch, just to be sure.
It’s lined with plastic.
Shovels.
For him.
No cash.
Shame.
*****
Vinny hails a cab home and runs upstairs. Grabs his rainy-day money.
Half a mil, cash.
No time for goodbyes. Duffle bag in hand, he goes for the door.
Airport time.
“This is for Darius,” a voice behind him says as Vinny steps into the hall, turning towards the stairs.
He wonders who it is.
Don’t care really.
Except the voice’s familiar.
Kid’s been distant lately. Wendy tried to sell him on teenage hormones and the like. Vinny knew better. Someone got to the kid.
“That’s the guy who did your old man.”
“And he’s screwin’ your ma.”
“You gonna let that fly kid?”
The kid can’t.
Caesar. Strong name. He’s half tempted to toss the Et tu line, but he don’t.
The jig is up.
He closes his eyes and thinks of the old neighborhood before it all goes black.
*****
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